


atelophobia

by orphan_account



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, oikawa will never be enough and it physically pains me to think about that, this is a vent fic please ignore it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-19
Updated: 2016-08-19
Packaged: 2018-08-09 18:59:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,323
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7813453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p></p><blockquote>
  <p>(n.) the fear of imperfection, of not being good enough.</p>
</blockquote>sometimes tooru wants to scream.
            </blockquote>





	atelophobia

**Author's Note:**

> edit: this is Short and Bad.
> 
> unbeta'd. i may have missed a few errors, feel free to point them out so i can correct them and then crawl into a hole and die with embarrassment.

Sometimes Tooru wants to scream.

(he wants to claw at himself, give into the roiling darkness under his skin; he wants to stop being _not enough;_ he wants to fly even with the beaten up, mangled, bruised, _ugly_ wings of his, even when he knows that it might just be impossible; he wants, just for a minute, a second, a _moment_ in his miserable existence, to _amount to something_ –

he wants a great many things, things he will never have a chance to get because _of course_ , he is not enough,

 _he is not gifted_ )

 

The world is unfair. 

He tries so hard. Days turn to nights and nights to days and he stays at the gym, tossing, jumping, hitting, tossing, jumping, hitting – a process repeated until it is ingrained into his very being, his _soul_ –  practising, practising, _practising._ He practises until his legs give out and he can’t breathe, until he can serve with his eyes closed with perfect accuracy, with deadly precision. Until he knows the court like the back of his hand. Practise makes a man perfect, he thinks. If he practises enough, he will make it.

 

(it’s a foolish thought, but he is young and naive and doesn't yet know the ways of the world.)

 

His serves are faultless. He knows every inch of the court. That must be enough. That has to be enough, he thinks, _hopes._

 

(it isn’t, _of course it isn’t_ ; his life is just a tremendous joke for the gods to laugh at.)

 

There is always a genius right around the corner, unaware of how Tooru self-destructs internally every time he meets them and thinks _another one, another one to defeat, to conquer but this is too much too much I can’t do this_ with a smile on his face that never quite reaches his eyes nor his heart.  There’s Tobio. _Ushijima._

Their names leave a bitter taste on his tongue and he feels like throwing up.

It’s not their fault, it’s not even a _fault_. His rage is irrational. He knows it, he is aware of what he thinks, and that’s what makes everything even more painful. Jealousy crawls up his throat and chokes him until he can’t do anything but smile with faux confidence ( _ha_ , joke of the year, of the century, of the goddamn millennium, Oikawa Tooru is anything but confident; _desperate_ is what he is) and say words akin to daggers, lodging themselves in anyone who dares to get close to him.

 

(anyone, everyone except Hajime; never Hajime.)

 

His sanity hangs by a thread which snaps when Tobio asks for his help and he almost loses it,  _would_ have lost it if it hadn't been for Hajime. He realizes at that instant, when Hajime grasps his forearm tightly and yells at him, his eyes asking a silent _why_ , that he is becoming someone else.  Someone he doesn’t want to be.

Hajime says (yells) that the stronger six will win. Winning is not _his_ sole responsibility. It is collective. And something in Tooru _burns_ and he suddenly feels invincible (untouchable), as he stands next to his best friend with a volleyball gripped in his hand and blood smudged under his nose.

 

(Hajime has always, always known what to say.)

 

Still, there are moments when he wonders if volleyball is even worth it. Worth the nervous breakdowns, the never-ending bruises, the constant fear of _not being enough_.

But then he sees his teammates, trusting him. _Accepting_ him as who he is (coward, selfish, petty, _disgusting_ ). He feels the exhilarating rush of being on the court, of seeing the awestruck look on his opponents’ faces when he executes a particularly good serve. He sees the bond volleyball constructed between Hajime and him.

He realises he loves, loves, _loves_ volleyball –

and he is selfish, too selfish to give up on it.

His knee gives out in the middle of his second year of high school. It takes a miscalculated jump ( _fatigued_ , Hajime called it; he always did have a problem with overexerting himself), a sharp twist in his knee and a sudden pulsing pain that sets his entire leg on fire. He calls the only person he can think of and Hajime is there in an instant. The trip to the hospital passes in a haze of pain and the pure undulated fear of realizing that today might have very well been the last day of volleyball for him. He is afraid, so afraid and he never relents his grip on Hajime’s hand the entire time.

 

(Tooru doesn’t cry that day, he is too spent, too tired, too _furious_ –

so Hajime does it for him.)

(His knee becomes an addition to his too long, evergrowing list of shortcomings.)

 

**~~ooo~~ **

 

“You don’t have to be the best everything,” Hajime says one day as they walk home after school.

“I can try,” Tooru replies.

“You don’t _have_ to do anything.” There’s a pause. “It will destroy you. I don’t want to see that.”

Tooru doesn’t know what to say. Hajime never brings it up again.

 

**~~ooo~~ **

 

Third year makes him the captain of the team and he is proud, so proud. He thinks that this year, this _year_ will be it. He’ll finally crush Ushijima, he’ll finally prove himself.  He has Hajime. He has Hanamaki and Matsukawa. He has the whole team.  They will be the stronger six, _they_ are _the stronger six –_

They lose to Ushijima.

He’s furious at himself. He is still not enough.

 _Spring high,_ Hajime reminds him when they are holed up in his darkened room, sitting side by side staring at nothing (and everything). _We will win in the Spring High. There’s one more chance_.

But then Karasuno with their fucking _Tobio-chan_ ruin their _one_ _more chance._

The ball slipped past his fingers. It’s his fault, no matter what Hajime says. He doesn’t cry and puts up a practised mechanical smile, trying to keep himself together as his teammates fall apart if front of him. 

But a meaningless fractured stream of words resonate through his head all the way to the ride back to school.

 

( _my fault my fault useless utterly useless how fucking_ pathetic _)_

(he can’t hide the trembling of his hands. Hajime’s calloused fingers soon find their way to his shaking ones.)

 

“It’s not your fault,” Hajime whispers when they’re finally back home, curled up on bed with their legs tangled together and Tooru has finally let himself cry until his eyes are sore and itchy. “ _It’s not your fault,”_ he repeats. _It’s mine,_ he adds wordlessly.

Tooru tilts his forehead against Hajime’s and exhales, feeling immensely tired. “Not yours either,” whispers back.

Hajime doesn’t answer and just holds him tighter.

 

(in the end, they had did their best, but Tooru's best never seemed to measure up to others'.)

 

**~~ooo~~ **

 

After that loss, Tooru begins to think about something he’d resolutely not allowed to cross his mind until now.

_(the future.)_

                   

  ** ~~ooo~~**

 

 “I am giving up,” Tooru announces to the other third years on the day before graduation when they are all gathered for a last lunch at the rooftop. “Being the best, I mean,” he adds after the lack of response. He frowns. “Or at least I'll _try_. I'm good at trying. But I won’t stop playing volleyball.”

Hanamaki doesn’t look up from his bento. “Okay,” he says.

“Finally,” Matsukawa mutters under his breath.

“Took you long enough,” grumbles Hajime and steals a carrot from his bento, ignoring his squawk of protest. “You’re fine the way you are, dipshit.”

It's a bit too anticlimactic for Tooru’s taste.

 

(But it’s good enough.)

 

He feels his lips stretch into a smile and a strange warmth explodes in his heart. _Fine the way he was,_ huh?

 

**~~ooo~~ **

 

_He breathes in._

_(always second best, always, always someone better, everything will amount to nothing, nothing, you are nothing, no –_

_worthless. You are worthless.)_

_He breathes out –_

_(he is worthless.)_

_– and he lets it go._

**Author's Note:**

> idk what this is either
> 
> hmu on tumblr at [@cosmic-nya](http://cosmic-nya.tumblr.com/)


End file.
